


The Colors Of This Sound Like A Shape

by teenuviel1227



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Smut, i have no idea how to freaking tag this, love that ends, the one that got away, xOC but also xReader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 12:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15510270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: They met at a party. Bright lights--pinks fading into hues of blue pulsing into the kind of yellow that Brian can still see when he closes his eyes. A slick bass line, the slide of electric guitar against an electro-disco beat. And her.The rest of it is a blur.





	1. The Feast of Words You Never Could Say

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoy this. This is the closest to the heart I've ever played a fic. Be gentle.
> 
> Titles are from epitaph by hippo campus :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning, the end.

They met at a party. Bright lights--pinks fading into hues of blue pulsing into the kind of yellow that Brian can still see when he closes his eyes. A slick bass line, the slide of electric guitar against an electro-disco beat. And her.

The rest of it is a blur.

Now, years later, after it’s over--finally, truly over, as he’s lying awake, staring at the dusty ceiling of the apartment that he shares with Jae and Wonpil, Brian wishes that the story were less cliche than that. He wishes that it was the kind of thing that would stand out, that would be a real story to tell, a hell of a yarn to spin, something that he could turn into one of those stupid poems of his that somehow, for some fucking reason, literary journals keep publishing. Maybe he could even turn it into a song, something that the gals and guys at the gigs would like, something that Jae or Sungjin or Wonpil or Dowoon would mock him mercilessly for but which they would all agree to learn because they’d know they could make a buck off of it.

Something about hair and lights and drunkenness and old sitcom references and a song he can’t forget.

Brian shakes his head, sighs.

Except he’s forgotten most of that night, forgotten the song, forgotten any inside jokes--only remembers the girl, only remembers the years of longing that followed and then the end last night: a drive along the coast, a strand of hair tucked behind one ear, the wind blowing through the open window of his car. Her perfume carrying in the air. The light from her cigarette flaring in the wind, the ash blowing away as she took a drag and let the smoke billow out from her slightly parted lips.

 _I got the job and I’m moving away._ Just like that. No anger, no resentment--no questions or promises, only the statement of fact. It was a tone he couldn’t begrudge her because of what followed which is a capital-T truth that he holds onto like a tether to his sanity, to the reality of this, whatever this is--or was. She’d grinned and put her hand over his on the gearshift. _I love you so fucking much, Bri. You know that, right?_

Brian closes his eyes, bids the tears to keep from falling because his eyes hurt from not crying as it is and he has to be up for work at the University in a couple of hours. And if his eyes are swollen, Jae will pester him until he spills. If he’s not sharp as a knife tomorrow, Sungjin will know that something’s off and make sure to finish Jae’s job of nagging until Brian talks about it.

And Brian doesn’t want to talk about it.

Brian wants to keep it for himself, to hold the memory sacred for as long as time will let him.

He can’t write her into a poem or a song because it wasn’t like that with her--it wasn’t something that he could __use__ , wasn’t fodder for fiction, wasn’t the sort of thing that you wrote about. With her, for once in his life, Brian Kang knew what it felt like to be fully __in__  the moment, not to be watching out for a simile or a clever consonance or a convenient re-positioning of objects in a room to make them mean something.

Being with her was everything and nothing: no labels, no strict rules, but it was __theirs.__ To everyone else, it was devoid of meaning but it was meaningful to him, to them both.

Being with her was the sort of thing that you __lived__  for as long as you were able, for as long as she let you--and then spent the rest of your life remembering when it was over.

Which is now, Brian thinks, watching the clock on the far wall tick the time away, taking her with it. He closes his eyes and thinks of all of the time over the years they’d spent in each others’ arms, thinks of the way that their conversations never seemed to end, only seemed to ebb and flow and pick up wherever they left off, both of them keeping tabs like keeping your finger between the pages of your favorite book to remember what part you’d been reading. He thinks of that first night they’d made love after almost two years of tip-toeing around it--remembers the heat and slowness of it, the moment encased in memory and written in sensations: her hand running down his back, goading him on, his tongue licking into her mouth, her voice calling his name, their chests flush, relishing every touch, every sight, every feeling finally privy to each other after years of guessing, of wondering, of thinking __maybe.__

Memory, remembrance.

Brian listens as in the kitchen, Jae and Wonpil start to make breakfast, the clinking of cutlery against ceramic distinct even through the door.

__The remembering starts now._ _

 

 

It was at the roller rink four years ago and he didn’t think much of her at first--that’s the truth: cold and hard,but tender, too, the way that a shard of glass is tender and cutting at the same time if you close your fist and try hard enough to hold it to keep someone else safe. The party was for Jinyoung’s birthday and as usual, Brian was in two places, in two minds at once: half __in__ the moment, half watching everyone else, half living the narrative, half listing down the metaphors for later on, for after.

Right-click, Save Moment As.

On the one hand, he was doing shots that were too blue to be anything natural. On the one hand, he was laughing as Sungjin said something about Jinyoung being so wasted he was actually going to try and put on roller skates and get in the rink without falling over. On the one hand, he was lacing up his own skates and getting ready to get in the rink, do what Wonpil has calling the Tequila Sobriety Skate Test.

On the other, he was thinking of the spinning disco ball as a metaphor for his post-graduate life--the party only shining in the presence of other people’s light, the dance and all of its rhythms only a reflection of the moment they’d all collectively perceived, all collectively put together in an act of conscious dreaming. On the other hand, he was thinking about the difficulty of movement while being inebriated and how common it was to want one when you had the other: was this constant need to do crazy things while drunk on birthdays rooted in the need to runaway from the anxieties of getting older?

On the one hand, he’s enjoying the party, the company of his friends.

On the other, he’s falling apart at the seams.

Everything is euphoric. Everything is terrifying.

It had always been at once his biggest strength, his Achilles heel--Brian was good with these masks because he didn’t hide behind them, he became them. It wasn’t that he wasn’t having a good time or was only pretending to--nor was it that he wasn’t really thinking about the moment or seeping himself in its possibilities for literary merit. It’s that it was both.

It was always both.

“HEY! Look the fuck out!”

Enter, her of the single-mindedness to a fault, of the dirty jokes, of the sly retorts veiled under her girlish smile, coquettishness masquerading as nonchalance.

She was tipsy and she barreled into him like a stone launched full-force at a glass bottle. She wasn’t inebriated enough to be incapable of putting on her skates, evidently, only enough to lose her sense of direction and ram into Brian, sending them both spinning across the skating rink. Brian, just coming out of his odd trance as he watched the lights change colors, found himself in a whirlwind: the only sound, her laughter, the only sight, big, brown eyes framed with thick lashes, alight in laughter, crows’ feet lining the corners of her eyes. She pulled him close, steadied herself by holding onto his shoulders. He’d caught her gently but firmly by the elbows, both of them trying not to pitch too far left or right, both of them just trying to stay afloat.

When Brian finally managed to find his footing, to stir them toward the edges, to get a firm grasp on the sidelines, she burst out laughing. Her breath rose in fog from the coldness of the rink.

“Sorry,” she said, panting as she held onto the side of the rink for dear life. “Holy shit. Fucking Wonpil and his goddamn Tequila sobriety test. How the fuck is Jinyoung still skating?”

“Birthday luck?” Brian grinned, turning to watch Jinyoung stumble across the rink, a big, dopey smile on his face. “Is that a thing?”

“Or stupidity compromising your reflexes against danger just as adrenaline kicks in, giving you--whatever that thing he’s trying to pull of is.” She smiled at Brian. She was pretty in an ordinary kind of way--he couldn’t point out one thing that he liked in particular, only that he liked her overall demeanor, liked the way that she said things, the way that she seemed comfortable in her own skin. It was like watching a curtain take to the wind, watching seafoam brush against the air. “That’s probably more likely.”

“Brian, by the way. Jinyoung’s colleague from the Lit Department. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” Brian stuck out his hand.

“Right.” She said her name and reached out to shake his hand. Brian marveled at how small her hand was in his and how warm despite the cold--steadfast and fragile at the same time, a duality, a contradiction, not unlike Brian himself. “Nice to meet you. I’m technically Wonpil’s date but really, it’s more like I’m his colleague with no friends and nothing to do on a Friday night and he knew I knew Jinyoung from the hospital so he pitied me now here I am, paying the friendship price and letting myself get drowned in Tequila and ramming into beautiful strangers on the ice--”

Brian tries to ignore the wordbeautiful--it’s not like he doesn’t know how he looks, the effect he has on certain people--but fails, feels his cheeks heat up. Because one thing he __isn’t__ used to is being on the other end of this encounter, being the one caught off guard.

He looks up at her. She smiles, then, and holds his gaze, really __looks__ at him and his heart skips a beat--for a moment, he sees a flash of something rare something he’s barely seen in all of his twenty-five years of life: sincerity.

And then it hits him exactly __who__ he’s talking to, the things she’s said finally registering: Psych Department, Wonpil, no friends, just moved here.

“--holy shit,” Brian said, grinning. “You’reSexy New Psych Girl.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t know. I __could__  be, I guess it’d depend on your type--”

Brian laughed. “--Wonpil’s been talking about you for weeks.”

She shrugged. “All good things, I hope?”

Brian tilted his head slightly, studied her.

Wonpil had talked about her on almost all lunch breaks that weren’t spent with her--to Brian, she looked ordinary, if pleasantly so: chocolate-brown eyes, bright smile, hair wind-blown and framing her face. She was wearing a concert shirt with the logo blurred out, jeans with tears too irregular to be store-bought, her hair billowing around her face. And yet he understood where Wonpil was coming from--it was in the tiny movements: the slow way her lips had of curling into a smile, the way she tilted her head as she spoke.

She had a way about her and it woke something up in Brian: it made him want to lose control, made him want her to have her way with him.

“Hey,” Wonpil said, coming up to them from the other side of the barrier, grinning as he held up two shot glasses of Tequila. “I see you guys’ve met.”

“Yeah,” Brian said, grinning--and there he is again, splitting himself into two: he’s Wonpil’s friend, eager and supportive, and he’s someone smitten, wanting to have all of her attention to himself, to be in the moment of meeting a girl just a moment longer. “Your two guinea pigs. Are those shots for us? ‘Cause if I fucking puke on this ice--”

“--don’t worry, Kang Bra,” Wonpil said. “One’s for me.”

Brian felt his world spin, half from the alcohol, half from realizing the precipice on which he’s standing, the roles he had to play in this moment. He watched her take the small, amber glass, watched a look pass between them--a small smile, the promise of an __after__ , of a moment after this one.

She downed the shot, let out a slow breath, handed the shot glass back to Wonpil. Brian caught the small things--force of habit from re-writing moments, writing instead of being in moments: fingertips lingering against skin, a smile bitten back but not quite.

Wonpil grinned at her. “You wanna get out of here?”

Brian opened his mouth to say something, as though the moment was a play and someone else had said his line. Except, well, it wasn’t his line.

She grinned, swung a leg up and over to get out of the rink, Wonpil helping her up. “Sure.”

Wonpil glanced back at him, waved a small wave, wiggled his eyebrows. “Catch you later, Kang Bra.”

She looked over her shoulder, then too, and grinned. “Bye, Brian. I’ll see you around.”

“See you.”


	2. You’ve Got Tact & I’ve Got Bravado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plane, a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem here are the lyrics from epitaph by hippo campus :))

Getting on the plane was the hardest thing that she’d ever had to do--especially after last night, especially after things seemed to finally be in a place where both of them could breathe, could just let themselves be.

Things between her and Brian had never been simple: from that first night on the ice when she’d hit him head-on, all sea legs and breath that refused to stay, falling into the strength of his arms as he skated them to safety, to later on when they would lie on the sofa in her apartment, holding each other and talking about anything and everything until the sun came up but going no further than that despite wanting to, to even later on when they’d decided to jump off the diving board of friendship and into the waiting depths of well, whatever this is-- _was_. Everything always came in layers or in different dimensions for them, like a stone in a necklace she owned once as a child which changed color with the light: if you tilted the situation a little, everything changed.

One thing was never just the thing it was.

On the one hand, the situation was black and white: she and Wonpil had dated, they’d broken up, and then she and Brian had gotten closer and closer still, had fucked, had fallen in love (or whatever order those two went it).

On the other hand, the devil is in the details. On the other hand, there was the way that both of them had circled around each other, had navigated neutral spaces even back when she and Wonpil were together, like two moons trying to find a way to linger a little longer where their orbits allowed them to spin closest to each other before drifting away.

The way she always saw them in contrast to each other is like this: Brian, incapable of ever saying anything directly, always finding a way to skew stories, to make things seem like other things, could only ever tell her the truth. And she, who supposedly shed light on the human psyche for a living, who prided herself in being direct and straightforward, could only ever give him roundabout explanations.

Neither of them would ever ask how the other felt. Neither of them would ever ask about what it meant that they’d put each other on their forms as emergency contacts after a year of meeting each other or that they spoke on the phone every night until they dozed off. Neither of them would ever talk about Wonpil and the break up and how it happened right after the reading, night of Brian’s book launch. She would never ask about the poem and whether or not it was about her--because she knew he would tell her. And he would never ask her what she thought of it because he knew she wouldn’t give him the answer he wanted to hear.

The answers were complicated and both of them knew it would both be a yes and a no.

Yes, the poem was about the way that both of the felt safe in the other’s company, was about how both of them had told each other things they would never, for the life of them, tell anyone else--but also it wasn’t about them, wasn’t about that, because it was only a cheap reproduction of a situation like theirs, would never be able to fully capture the complexity of what it meant to sleep with someone and really sleep--not fuck or fondle, not be awake with lust but feel a part of you feel like it could finally rest--to wake up with your head on their chest, to brush back their hair and ask them for nothing except what they want for breakfast.

Of course, the fucking followed shortly after. Of course, eventually they’d found a way to talk about it, or the part of it they were willing to shed light on. They’d found their own way to navigate things--through anecdotes about other things, through movies shared, through songs sung lazily as they washed soap suds off each other in the shower.

And yet, as it became clearer and clearer that she would get the job, as it became more evident that no one else--especially not Wonpil--would be running against her for the grant, an accompanying fear had leapt at her like a big cat stalking its prey.

What if things ended and he never knew?

They were three words, three stupid, cliche words, but neither of the had said them to each other over the years--of course, there were other things, place-holders, she liked to think: their conversations, their shared books, their music, their languid way of making love, less like it was something to get done and more like it was something to indulge in. They both knew that they cared. Neither of them felt a need to put a label on it, had both sealed the deal with Brian asking her point-blank _you’re not going to fuck anyone else, are you_ ? To which she’d replied by nipping at his lower lip and pulling him down toward her. _Fuck no._

And yet, the hunger to speak snuck up on her and stayed, hollowed her out and made a home of the places it emptied out.

Both of them made a living off of words. It seemed necessary.

_I love you so fucking much, Bri. You know that, right?_

Because as complicated as things between them were, that one thing was simple enough.

Today, she sits on the plane, looking out the window as it taxis off the runway, gearing up for flight. She watches as the ground grows smaller and smaller, the airport moving farther and farther away. She closes her eyes and imagines Brian getting into the car, imagines Brian going home and not knowing what to do with himself, feeling as lost as she will when she arrives where she’s heading. Her heart lurches in her chest and she holds onto what Brian had said, his words precious if for no other reason than how scarcely she’d heard them.

_I love you too. I know you have a horrible memory but try not to forget._

_I couldn’t if I tried._

 

The thing is that Wonpil was right--their break-up hadn’t been about the poem.

The first thing that she fell in love with was Brian’s laugh--head thrown back, eyes like crescent moons, nose scrunched, cheeks puffed up, smile wide. In the throes of laughter, Brian didn’t look like the self people thought he was, the self he let people assume he was--later, she’d come to know that that laugh was his way of taking off his masks, of saying _here I am._ It was unexpected, like finding sunshine in the dead of winter, like expecting to be pummeled with ice and instead being wrapped in soft warmth. She can’t remember the exact moment--maybe they were at the apartment he shared with Jae and Wonpil, having dinner, maybe it was at one of the inter-departmental parties, maybe it was one of the smoke breaks that they used to go on during the guys’ gigs. The details get lost in the devil: whatever the moment, his laugh opened a trapdoor in her heart she hadn’t known existed, unhinging the heavy wood from the dust that it had collected and letting the sunshine in. It was the thing that made her realize, all those years ago, that two facts were true: first, she wasn’t in love with Kim Wonpil the way that she wanted to be. And second, she couldn’t say the same about Brian Kang.

When she first met him at the rink, she thought she had him pegged, thought she knew what--who--he was, thought to herself that she was done with all of that--brooding eyes and broad shoulders, eyes to kill and delicate mouths behind which hid a billion secrets. All her life she’d dated men like that down to the band shirt under his leather jacket, the cigarettes in his back pocket, the way he threw a line _you’re sexy new psych girl?_ and expected her to be fazed, to blush a little, which she refused to do. And moving here, moving jobs, moving lives she’d decided she was through with that.

She held him at a distance--he was Wonpil’s flatmate, nothing else. A friend, someone to joke with at parties.

And then one day, he laughed.

And then he reached over, maybe to light her cigarette or to hand her a drink or to pass her salt and she noticed the small moles on the lobes of his ears, the miniscule dimples at the corners of his mouth, the tiny mole askance from his nose.

_You okay?_

Lips formed into a small o, eyes wide, gentle, asking.

And in that moment she saw the thing that she was looking for, the thing that she convinced herself she’d found in Wonpil, who, although she loved him in her own way, although she was fond of him and found him hilarious and charming and handsome, didn’t have: something that startled her, that woke in her something hungry, that made her want to peek behind the curtain. Wonpil was light: bright and illuminating, luminescent and candid, always hiding a joke up his sleeve--but Brian was fire: always dancing, one moment warm and comforting, the next scalding and dangerous, one moment burning bright, the next shifting in shadow, two sides of his own coin.

And she was air--sure about where to go but uncertain how to get there, always looking for shape, for something to catch on to keep her in the same place. She was sharp, cutting like a sword or gust that goes too fast. That is, until she caught on Brian Kang and they were both set alight.

 

The book launch felt like a conflagration--the culmination of a billion things set into motion almost a year and a half prior: a carefully drawn match struck against cement and then held to a loose valve of gas. The gallery was small but posh, owned by Bernard, one of the University’s alumni and one of Jae’s closest friends.

She spotted Brian as soon as she and Wonpil walked in. He was standing my the small podium, frowning down at the book open in front of him, eyebrows furrowed,

“Hey, there’s Bri,” she said, squeezing Wonpil’s hand and nodding toward the front of the room.

Wonpil took a deep breath and nodded, his eyes thoughtful. Things had been odd between them lately--not cold exactly, but cooler, less enthusiastic, the moon waning. “Let’s go say hi, then.”

“BriBri,” she said, reaching out to put a hand on his forearm.

It happened quickly but she saw both things that happened then--Brian flinched and Wonpil winced before looking away--and then it was done, the moment passed and Brian was snapping the book shut and putting on that wide grin, that facade of normalcy, and Wonpil was the picture of calm, ready to talk about anything except whatever had been going on, anything but whatever unspoken thing had followed them all over the past year and a half, in the silences and gray places: she and Brian lending each other books and records and taking time off on the weekends to hang out, she and Wonpil celebrating a year together, Wonpil waking up and heading into the kitchen to see her and Brian laughing at the counter over cups of coffee, nothing to see, really, and yet everything spoken louder than any words could in the way that she reached out to touch his arm and then thought better of it, setting her hand down on the table instead, in the way that he reached over to muss her hair without thinking and then caught himself, clearing his throat, reaching for the book at hand that she’s brought to lend him.

“Hey guys,” Brian said, grinning. “You guys have a drink yet? Get a copy of the book yet?”

“Poems first, drinks later.” Wonpil smiled, held up the two copies he’d grabbed from the display table by the entrance.

“Fair enough,” Brian said, letting out a slow breath. He met her gaze, held it, smiled. She felt a sensation like falling in the pit of her stomach--but she was used to that by now. Butterflies in the stomach, the Brian Effect.

She tilted her head, studied him in the light: something odd about the smile, sweat beading on the tip of his nose.

“You okay?” She grinned, tried to make a joke, wiggled her eyebrows. “You actually _nervous_ about this reading, Mr. Poet Sir?”

There was no quick comeback, no playful remark, only a soft smile.

“I guess.”

Wonpil cleared his throat, squeezed her hand before letting it go.

“I’ll go get us those glasses of wine.”

 

I'm blind and afraid  
The colors of this sound like a shape  
The feast of words you never could say  
And I'm torn apart  
In the sun, there is red  
The epitaph of an old record player  
The sweetness in the salt of her hair  
And there's no decision

I knew a girl once  
There were splinters from her thoughts  
Unless you knew a god  
With kindness in her heart  
You're a dark one  
With a knack for pushing boys off a cliff  
And the messy eyes of ink-splattered fits  
And it's all found in a page

I know a place out beyond these pines  
Where the sky falls down with the cumulus cries  
A winter song for a January type  
I could tame my heart  
I could blind my eyes  
The river is an organ  
And the meadow is a church  
For a strange inclination  
That fortune is a curse  
I'm a cryptic writer  
I'm an ignorant fool  
I'm a poor excuse for poetry  
Trying to play it cool  
I'm just trying to play it cool

 

It was vague--unsentimental skirting nostalgic and figurative to a fault, descriptive at most, but somehow she’d known, somehow saw herself in the lines that refused to speak about anything other than the inability to speak. She didn’t say much about it, didn’t blush or falter, didn’t look up at him to smile or acknowledge that she knew, only clapped quietly with the rest of the audience, only clung to the rhythm of his voice as it left the mic--and yet he’d known that she knew.

After, they stood out on the overhang. It was raining, the sky pissing down on them, the water splashing off of the roof gutter. He pulled her away from the rainfall. Their elbows skimmed against each other. She grinned, picked his pack out of jacket pocket and took a stick for herself. He lit her cigarette and then his. They watched the rain fall, washed it slosh over the gallery’s slick facade.

“Congratulations again, monsieur,” she said, taking a drag, trying to keep things light, congenial. “You submit it for any prizes? It’s got a good chance, I think.”

Brian grinned. “You’re biased.”

She rolled her eyes but nudged him playfully. “You flatter yourself.”

“Touche.”

They grinned at each other. The rain pushed itself toward them, they leaned up against the sliding glass door. She put a hand up to shield her cigarette. Brian shrugged off his coat, put it over her shoulders to keep her from getting wet.

“I got an offer actually,” Brian said slowly. “But it’s all the way in Canada. On one hand, it’ll be good for me. Good stipend, good university, plus I’ll be near my parents.”

She nodded, read between the lines. _Ask me to stay._ “I see. You thinking of going?”

He flicked ash from his cigarette. She watched his handsome face shift in the yellow light--sadness, confusion, a flash of hope.

“Maybe. No decisions are set in stone yet.” He glanced at her, held her gaze. “But I’d really like to stay.”

She felt her heart lurch, felt something in the moment break through all of the different lies that she’d built around her like fences. _It’s just admiration. We’re just good friends. It isn’t like that._ She thought of Wonpil, then, how the other day he’d sat her down and told her that she could tell him anything, that he wouldn’t hold any happiness against her--even if it meant that it wasn’t him.

She put her cigarette out on the rain, shrugged out of Brian’s coat.

“Where--”

“--there’s something I need to do,” she said. “Just--wait for me.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

 

And an hour later, when she and Wonpil had decided to call it quits, when both of them had cried their tears of guilt and shame, had done their share of calling each other out on their bullshit-- _I knew it,_ Wonpil had said, and she’d sat there and taken it, out of excuses for once--had wished each other the best, had in their own way, chosen to love each other again and let each other go: he, setting her free to love someone else, she, setting him free to find someone who could love him the way that he deserved, that’s where Brian was: standing out on the overhang, waiting.

She knocked softly on the glass door.

He turned, eyes worried, mouth set in that way that was between speaking and trying not to cry.

He slid the door open slowly.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She felt his gaze skim over her face--hair piled up into a messy ponytail, eyes bloodshot from crying. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion: despite all of it, she was smiling.

“Oh. Where’d you--”

“--Wonpil and I broke up.”

“Oh.”

“Bri?”

“Mmmm?”

She crossed the doorway, stepped out onto the overhang to join him, hands already skimming his jacket for the pack of smokes she knew would be in the front pocket.

“Stay.”


End file.
